The Lady of Lyon House

by Jennifer Wilde

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE PRESENCE of Philip Ashley made itself felt very soon in the county. He was the kind of man who could never go unnoticed. He would either dazzle or terrify wherever he went. He seemed to do a combination of both in the village. He went there every day, and at first the villagers had been highly suspicious of the demonic figure who stalked down the streets. His tallness, his loose-limbed gait, the bright pink scar on the darkly tanned face all set him apart from the ordinary, and Molly said that little children had run from him at first. He bought painting supplies from the hardware store, set his easel up down by the river and began to paint. He had gone to the inn several times, and each time he had bought rounds of drinks for all the customers. He was very liberal with his money at all the stores, and this helped win the villagers over. Soon the very children who had run from him were sitting politely for him as he painted their portraits, holding the coins he gave them in their grubby hands.

  Molly had seen him herself, and she was ecstatic in her descriptions of him. She claimed that the village girls were bedazzled, each trying to win his favor. Two of them had fought for the privilege of bringing his lunch from the inn to the spot where he had installed his easel. The much discussed Connie Brown, the voluptuous baker’s daughter, had offered to sit for him, and Molly suggested that merely sitting was not at all what she had in mind. The arrival of Philip Ashley was causing almost as much excitement as the county fair, which was now being set up outside the village.

  His presence was strongly felt at Lyon House. I had not mentioned my encounter with him to anyone, but Corinne soon had the news that the Dower House had been rented out. She was furious, particularly when she discovered that the man who had rented it was an artist—riff-raff, no doubt. She claimed that the old harridan in London hated her and deliberately let Dower House to the most unsuitable tenants, just to spite her. She was even more furious when the man had the audacity to call on her, presenting himself at the front door as though he were a friend of the family.

  We were in the parlor at the time. Agatha Crandall was with us, her face just a little flushed from the alcohol she had been consuming. When the maid came in to announce the visitor at the front door, Agatha sat up alertly, watching Corinne with sharp eyes. The maid handed Corinne a small white card with Philip Ashley’s name printed on it. She flew into a rage, telling the maid to send him away at once.

  “Imagine the nerve of the fellow!” she cried.

  “He says he knows you, ma’am,” the maid said timidly.

  “Absurd! How could he possibly know me? Tell him to go away and not come back. Presenting his card like a gentleman! Send him away, girl. I have no intentions of letting such riff-raff in my parlor!”

  “Don’t be so hasty, Corinne,” Agatha said, her voice very sweet. “Some very respectable men paint now. Besides, he says he knows you. It would be interesting to see just how that could be possible.”

  “It’s none of your business, Agatha!”

  “You may be making a mistake,” Agatha purred.

  The maid was still standing in the middle of the room, a look of bewilderment on her bland face. Corinne whirled on her, her brown eyes blazing. “Move, you ninny! Do as I told you!” The girl ran out of the room, her face scarlet. Corinne sank back on the sofa, a deep frown on her face. Agatha Crandall stood up, her violet taffeta skirts rustling. She parted the draperies and looked out the window, watching the man leave. I could see him from where I sat. He walked down the drive with his arms swinging, his dark chestnut brown hair blowing in the breeze. He did not look at all disconcerted by the rude dismissal.

  “He’s very tall,” Agatha said. “Stork-like, those long legs. Come look, Corinne, Perhaps you do know him after all.”

  “Don’t bother me,” Corinne snapped.

  Agatha Crandall let the draperies fall back in place. She smiled and patted her girlish curls.

  “I think someone from Lyon House should extend a polite welcome,” she said. “The servants have been saying all kinds of fascinating things about the young man. Perhaps I’ll pay him a call.”

  Corinne looked up sharply.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” she said violently.

  “But, Corinne, dear, I would. I am not bound to this house like you are. I can come and go as I please. I think it would be quite exciting to pay my respects. Perhaps he would like to paint me.”

  She left the room, smiling enigmatically. Corinne sulked, her face set in a disgruntled expression that did not leave it all day. She was in an even uglier mood than she ordinarily was, and I stayed away from her. That night she and Edward closed themselves up in the parlor, supposedly to talk over accounts. I found that odd, as Corinne had never shown any interest in them before. They both wore grim expressions when they came out, and I could not help feeling that they had been talking about the new tenant of Dower House. Edward went over to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff drink. When he had finished it, he poured another, something I had never seen him do before. I wondered what could explain this strange conduct.

  I thought about all this that night as I lay in bed. Philip Ashley appeared to be exactly what he said he was, a painter who had come here to paint. That was exactly what he was doing, and there could be no mistake that he was an artist of sorts. His quick sketch of my face had proven he knew at least something about sketching. He was painting down by the river in the village, and Molly reported that some of the canvases were quite good, although she was certainly no judge of art. If I had not known for sure that he was the man who had followed me in London, I would never have questioned his authenticity. He was a painter. He wanted to get away from the uproar of the city for a while so that he could paint in peace. That was understandable. Many artists preferred to work in the country.

  The fact remained that he had appeared at the music hall every night, and after I told Mattie about it she sent me away. Now he was here in Devonshire, causing all kinds of comment, making no effort to remain unobtrusive. He had appeared shortly after the arrival of the two men who had inquired about me in London, the two men Bert had described. Edward Lyon had seen these two men, had recognized them and hurried me away from them. They had left the village, but Molly assured me they were still somewhere in the county.

  Edward had seemed upset tonight, and Corinne was nervous. Agatha Crandall made mysterious comments and acted like the possessor of an important secret. All of this had something to do with me, some way, somehow. It was like a wheel, going round and round, destination unknown. I was at the center of that wheel, and the revolutions around me seemed to make no sense. I remembered the moments of fear in London, the darkness and the secret threat. It seemed incredible that it had followed me here. It was incongruous with the sunshine and flowers and apparent serenity of Devonshire, and yet it was here.

  I closed my eyes, trying frantically to sleep. My mind was a whirl of questions, faces, images, all of them blurred together. I saw dark shadows closing in, and I heard words that were not clear. Over and over I saw one face, a face that would seem to explain this whole thing, but it was indistinct, the features blurred behind a veil. I felt sure that if I could rip that veil aside everything would be clear. I went to sleep finally, but it was a sleep filled with nightmares.

  Agatha Crandall did not appear at lunch the next day, but she came to the parlor later on that afternoon. I was reading a book about trees, and Corinne was playing solitaire, slapping the cards ruthlessly on top of each other, occasionally emitting a sharp cry of irritation when they did not fall to suit her. She looked up when Agatha came in and pushed the tiny card table away from her knees, scattering the cards on the floor. Agatha arched an eyebrow and swept across the room in a very grand manner, holding herself very erect. She smelled of gin.

  She wore a suit of plum colored taffeta, the jacket trimmed with bits of gray velvet. On her head was mounted an enormous hat of plum velvet, a dozen slightly tattered gray plumes curling about the brim. A thin veil of plum gauz
e half-concealed her face, but I could see her eyes snapping with excitement. She slowly pulled off one long gray velvet glove, tossed it on the sofa and then began to remove the other, deliberately making a small production of it. The room was tense. Only the sound of her taffeta skirts rustling broke the silence.

  “Well?” Corinne said finally. “Where have you been?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “Don’t make riddles!”

  “I’ve been out.” She spoke each word carefully, as though it took an effort to enunciate each one clearly.

  “You’ve been to the tavern, it would seem! You reek of gin. If the windows weren’t open we’d all be asphyxiated from the fumes!”

  “Mr. Ashley gave me the gin,” Agatha said, tossing her other glove on the floor. “He was very polite, very polite indeed.”

  “So you went to see him after all?”

  “Indeed I did, dear,” she replied smugly, sitting down carefully. She slumped a little on the sofa, but she held her hands folded neatly in her lap, and there was a small smile fixed permanently on her lips.

  “And he plied you with liquor?”

  “Plied? No, dear. He served it in a tea cup, a tiny cup with a blue rim. He didn’t have any glasses. The place was really a mess. There were paintings stacked all over the room, and some of the furniture still had sheets covering them. Dust everywhere. The man is a wretched housekeeper. There was a dog in the room, gnawing a bone at my feet. Disconcerting, to say the least.”

  Corinne was silent. Her fingers moved restlessly in her lap. She was furious, but, more than that, there was a look in her eyes that I could only describe as fear. She was afraid of something. It showed in the movement of her hands, in the way she sat on the edge of her chair.

  “Mr. Ashley is quite interesting,” Agatha continued. “He told me all about his painting and his studio in London. He is a wealthy man, and he does not have to work. So he paints. He talks in a coarse voice, like a thug. The sound of it is enough to startle one. And he looks like Mephistopheles himself, heavy arched eyebrows, a sharp nose and a scar, dear, going right down his face. He explained it to me, the scar. He said he got it dueling.”

  She paused dramatically, waiting for questions. She looked at Corinne, then her eyes swept over to me. She was enjoying herself immensely. This seemed to be an important event in her life, and she was determined to suck every drop of pleasure from it.

  “Dueling, yes, but not what you think. He was taking fencing lessons at the academy and somehow or other the protective ball on the tip of his partner’s sword came off. The scar was the result of that accident. So he says. It’s probably a story. He probably got it in a street fight. He looks like the sort who would participate in tavern brawls, although he was a perfect gentleman to me, you understand. Very attentive, he was. He was most curious about you, my dear.”

  Corinne tensed. She started to speak, then she clamped her lips together tightly. Agatha waited a moment, then she continued her monologue. She held her hands out, examining them casually as she spoke.

  “Most curious. It seems he met you once when he was a little boy. You made quite an impression on him. His father is an art dealer, and he sold you several nice things.”

  “I never knew an art dealer named Ashley,” Corinne said. “The man is lying.”

  “Nevertheless, he described you vividly—at least he described you the way you used to be.” She made this thrust with a cruel jab, looking up to see how Corinne would take it. Corinne did not blink. She stared at Agatha with eyes that were now expressionless.

  “He wanted to know about you and about Edward and all about Edward’s trips to London. And—” She paused again, this time looking at me. “He was most curious of all about Miss Meredith. Yes, he wanted to know all about her and why she was here and how long she would stay.”

  “What did you tell him?” Corinne said, speaking each word separately. Her voice had the quality of steel.

  “I have tact, my dear.”

  “What did you tell him, Agatha?”

  “Nothing. He kept plying me with gin—your word, plying. I kept on drinking it, and I pretended to be very groggy, and you can see I am not the least bit groggy. I did not tell him anything. You can relax, dear. When I left he did not know anything he didn’t need to know, rest assured. He asked me to call again. He seemed quite anxious that I call again. He serves very nice gin. I may call again.”

  She burst into a girlish giggle at this last, then she slumped back on the sofa, exhausted. Corinne stood up, very composed, very regal now. She clapped her hands sharply and a servant girl came into the room. Corinne told the girl to summon Clark. Clark was the gardener, a burly, taciturn man who silently appeared in the gardens every morning and spent all his free time in his room, sleeping. He came in now and Corinne pointed to Agatha, not saying a word. Clark scooped her up, supported her on his shoulder and led her out of the room. Agatha staggered, the preposterous hat tipped at a crazy angle on top of her head.

  I was in the library later on when Corinne came in, saying that Agatha was safely in her room, sleeping off the effects of the gin. She seemed disgusted with the whole business, all signs of the earlier fear gone. My sketchbook was on the desk and she picked it up, idly flipping through the pages. I had not shown the sketches to her after all. She paused, turning around to face me. She held out the sketch Philip Ashley had done of me. I explained the sketch and told her briefly about my encounter with him, leaving out most of the details. She looked alarmed, far more alarmed than she had been earlier in the day.

  “What did he say to you?” she asked carefully.

  “Nothing much. He was—polite.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

  “I—I just didn’t think it was important. Was it, Corinne?”

  She hesitated, decided not to make an issue of it. “No—” she said, “It wasn’t—important. I just thought he might have—might have been rude to you.”

  “He wasn’t,” I replied calmly, puzzled by her attitude.

  “Don’t go there again, Julia. I suppose I don’t have to tell you it would be highly—improper. You are very young—”

  “Of course I won’t,” I said lightly. “I wouldn’t have in the first place if I had known Dower House had a tenant. Do you like my sketches?” I asked, changing the subject. “I tried to get all the details right. I like the one of the fern, don’t you?”

  Corinne was unusually cheerful at dinner that night but I could tell it was a forced cheerfulness. She was nervous, on edge, and her talk had an almost giddy quality. She drank three glasses of wine, which was unusual; she usually didn’t take any. Edward talked about the stalls the farmers were going to set up for the fair day after tomorrow, and he mentioned a steer which he hoped would win a blue ribbon and fetch a good price at the market. Both of them were talking for my benefit and I could sense that they wished to be alone, to discuss something much more urgent than the fair. I went to my room immediately after dinner, hoping to give them the opportunity they so obviously wanted.

  It was much later when I came downstairs. I had left my book in the parlor and had come to fetch it; I wanted to read for a while before going to sleep. As I approached the parlor, I noticed that the door was pulled to, although it was not completely closed. I had my hand on the knob when I heard voices. I stood very still. Edward’s voice was calm, soothing, while Corinne’s sounded strange, as though she was on the verge of hysteria.

  “It takes time, you must realize that,” Edward was saying. “It will all work out, just as I told you it would. It just takes time.”

  “I’m afraid,” Corinne said. “Not for myself. I don’t give a damn about myself. I’m afraid for Julia. Why can’t we just drop everything and get her out of here? I’m afraid for her. She is so innocent. She has absolutely no idea—”

  “Calm down. Everything is all right. It’s nerves
, just nerves. No harm will come to her. I’ll see to that. She’s safe here. You really must get hold of yourself. You must. I hate to see you upset like this.”

  “Mattie would never forgive me if anything happened to Julia.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to her. Just hold on—”

  “She’d never forgive me. I’d never forgive myself.”

  “Relax,” he said, his voice soothing. “Just relax—”

  “And now this—”

  A servant was coming down the stairs. She turned towards the parlor and I hurried away from the door. I slipped through the dining room and down the hall. It was not Julia going down the hall. It was someone else. I had an impulse to laugh. I wanted to laugh and laugh. It could not be Julia going down the hall. It had to be someone else.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IT WAS COOL outside. There was a chilliness in the air that cooled my burning cheeks and steadied my trembling hands. I took deep breaths, delaying hysteria and finally conquering it. In its place came a frightening kind of calm. The words that I had overheard, the emotions I had felt took their place in that bewildering parade of events that had begun when I had first been aware of someone following me in the fog as I walked to the music hall back in London. There must be a solution to it all; there must soon be an answer. I knew I could not go on like this for long. If something terrible was going to happen, I wished that it would happen now so that the tension would be over.

  I moved away from the house, hardly aware of the cold night air on my arms and shoulders. The heels of my shoes tapped on the tile of the terrace and my skirts made the noise of gently crackling flames. The pounding of my heart had subsided, and I was breathing evenly. I paused, looking up at the ink-black sky frosted with tiny pin points of stars. I no longer wanted to laugh. I wanted to be someone else, in another place. I stood listening to the crickets making their noises between the cracks of the tile, and far off, in the darkness of the trees, I could hear a solitary bird calling hopelessly for its mate.